


Who'll Have Mercy On Your Soul?

by fadedhues



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon!Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:28:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedhues/pseuds/fadedhues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles and Allison are badass and rescue the pack from hunters. There's also demon!Stiles and internally-self-reprimanding!Allison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who'll Have Mercy On Your Soul?

**Author's Note:**

> The Sterek in this is blindingly minimal. Like, down to the last line of this ficlet. Lawd help me.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://drabbledreams.tumblr.com/post/42981018029/alright-allison-checks-her-shoelaces-to-make) on my writing tumblr (where I take requests etc etc).
> 
> I have a thing for demon!Stiles, can't you tell?
> 
> Thanks for reading and putting up with my nonsense omg

“Alright,” Allison checks her shoelaces to make sure they’re firmly tied (the last thing you want to do when rescuing people is fall flat on your face and get killed—or even worse, laughed at by your enemies), “do we have an idea of how far away they are?”

Stiles stops and turns away from her. She studies his back as he tilts his head up and takes a deep breath— _weird, okay_ , but she’ll just let him do his thing (whatever that may be. He could just be fucking around right now, but Allison knows that this is too important to the both of them for any kind of joking). He’s wearing all black, like her, but the minimal amount of clothing is what throws her off—it’s cold ( _really goddamn cold_ , she thinks, hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm), and she’s wearing just the bare amount of layers that will let her move around but also keep her alive and warm, but Stiles is just wearing a black tank top, black jeans, and black shoes. She’s close enough so that she can see goosebumps raised on his skin from the chill, and _woah, is that a tattoo peeking out of his_ —

“They’re close,” Stiles says suddenly, and she steps back in surprise. He points off into the darkness.

“You sure?”

He glances at her, and her body tenses up, because—because his eyes look like black ink wells, glittering like beetles. He flicks his eyes away and back to her, and they’re normal now.

She tells herself it was just a trick of the light, just the darkness confusing her, because they really don’t have any time for any new supernatural discoveries.

He sets off and Allison follows him, bow and arrow already in place, keeping her eyes open in the dark woods. Her dad would be extremely angry (read: would curse at her grave) if she got herself killed because she wasn’t being aware.

It’s then that she realizes that Stiles isn’t holding any kind of weapon. God, what the hell is up with her tonight?

She’s really going to get killed tonight if she keeps being a dumbass, honestly.

“Um, Stiles,” she begins tentatively, “you don’t have any kind of weapon.”

“I know.”

“So… how are we gonna, you know, not die?” It comes out sharper than she had intended, but well, this is kind of ridiculous.

Stiles stops in his tracks and faces her. She comes to a halt and _ohmygodohmygod_ , his eyes are like black holes. This is definitely not a figment of her imagination. The tattoo she had thought she noticed is squirming out from under his top, spreading and winding its way around his shoulders and arms and, she’s guessing, his chest and back.

She gapes at him and then slowly nods.

Allison doesn’t ask any questions.

She doesn’t ask questions when she sees him destroy their enemies; doesn’t ask when the pack is safely out of the woods.

She doesn’t even ask when she sees Derek trace the black tendrils of the tattoo placed curiously close to Stiles’ heart. 


End file.
